Shards
by intheclouds247
Summary: Because apparently, promises were made to broken.


He had been part of the Order for two weeks when he saw her again. He couldn't recognise her. A sickly pallor had replaced the healthy flush she used to wear. She was unnaturally thin, her skin streched taut against her bones. There were shadows beneath her eyes, a dullness had invaded the sparkle her eyes once held. She had changed. Everyone had.

* * *

It was their first time fighting together as a team. They had hidden for days, gathering information, when they were found. She launched into battle, her hair whipping, as she shot curses and spells. She moved almost mechanically. He, on the other hand, had been stunned, those few moments being enough for the Death Eaters to gain the upper hand.

That night, as they tended to their wounds, he thanked her for saving his life. She said nothing and looked away.

Much later, he was woken up by whimpers. He whipped out his wand, ready to defend himself and his partner. When nobody appeared, his attention turned to the brunette witch beside him. She was tossing and turning, beads of sweat on her forehead. He shook her awake. She looks at him with frightened eyes. It is the only trace of emotion he has seen in her since he joined the Order three months ago.

" Do you want to talk about it?" He asks softly.

She shakes her head. They stay awake for some time, their eyes trained on the ground. He is about to doze off when she finally speaks.

" It's always the same. Harry dies. Voldemort takes over. My parents are killed. It happens almost every night. I'm used to it. After all, what would life be if someone didn't try to kill us everyday." She says and then lets out a bitter chuckle. He understands. He doesn't say anything else. There is no need to.

* * *

It's Christmas. He only knows because Molly Weasley wished him. She has everyone get up early. There are a few decorations hanging up in the living room. She has baked a small cake of which she insists everyone take a piece. He appreciates the effort, but he doesn't feel like celebrating. Ronald Weasley was killed in a skirmish with some Death Eaters a few days ago. Or maybe it was a few weeks. He doesn't really care about the passage of time. To him, it's all just a blur of blacks and whites and flashes of red. It seems that Molly remembers too, because her eyes are suspiciously shiny.

That night, he goes up to her room. She hasn't shared her room with anyone since Ginevra Weasley was killed some time back. When he opens the door, she is standing near the window and her hair is a tangled mess. She turns to face him, and her pupils are dilated, her mouth tilted into a lazy grin. She giggles. Her laugh is musical-half air and half sound- but there's an underlying heaviness to it. She giggles again and sways a little.

" Draco," she says, and her voice is rough and slightly slurred. " You look so funny," and she throws her head back and laughs. A cold dread settles in the pit of his stomach. Her eyes twinkle, and he isn't sure if it's out of amusement at his discomfort, or if it's simply the dim light in the room being reflected off her retinas. He grabs her arm roughly.

" How long?" he asks.

" Only for a little while."

" For how long?" He asks again, a little forcefully this time.

" Since Ginny..."

He is furious. She has been taking drugs for months and nobody noticed. He didn't notice. But somehow, she coaxes him into trying some.

The world is swirling and he can see only colors. The ground is tilting, and he feels himself falling.

" I don't know why you take this. I feel sick."

" You get used to it."

" I still don't see what's so great in it."

" You haven't lived yet." Her eyes crinkle, and her lips are tilted into the faintest of curves.

She's a slave to her addiction, with the pretty pink powder, and the glitter of dust on the tips of her eyelashes. He does get used to it, eventually. Likes it, even. The bright colours are a nice break from the dreary grey that surrounds them.

* * *

They have just escaped from the Death Eater hideout. They had been found two days into their mission and the days after that had been a hazy blend of shouted Crucios, maniacal laughter and pain. So much pain. They are huddled together in a small cave they found in the wilderness. She is wounded badly, he can tell. He lights a fire. It is risky, but they don't have a choice. Nothing prepares him for the huge gash on her calf, trailing down till her ankle, tapering at the edge. It is bleeding profusely, but that isn't the worst of it. An infection seems to be setting in. He patches her up to the best of his ability, but there's no telling if she'll survive the night.

She does.

And he could maybe be a little...happy at the fact. He allows a small smile to turn up the corners of his mouth and ignores the fact that the facial muscles that control this particular expression feel stiff with disuse. What happens after that is a blur and suddenly her lips are pressing against his. Her lips are chapped and dry and cold, but there is a warmth blossoming between them. And it wasn't an ordinary warmth, like the flickering heat of fire, or the blaze of the sun he muses to himself later. Nor was it like the comfort of the furry layers his mother bundled him in as a child or the sweet reassurance of hot chocolate on your down days.. It was internal and contradicting, somehow surviving and inexplicably growing stronger, even when surrounded by dreariness and cold, with darkness threatening to snuff the life out of it.

* * *

She was curled on the ground, hands clutched to her abdomen. Her hair is spread in a halo around her face. He clutches her desperately, her skin is pale, almost translucent, and he is afraid that if he lets go, she'll vanish into the air. The ground beneath is soaked with her blood and the contrast of her alabaster skin against the deep crimson is jarring.

" Stay with me, Hermione. It's okay. You're okay." But he knows that it isn't true. And yet he continues to whisper sweet falsities in her ear, in the hopes that somehow she would find strength in those empty words. He caresses her face, and he doesn't care whether the blood on her cheek is stained with all the sins he knows she's worth. Her eyes dart to him, and there's a ghost of a smile on her face.

" I'm not stupid, you know." And he knows she isn't. She's the brightest witch of their age. But even that doesn't make her immortal. " Just... just don't forget me, alright?"

" Alright." Her skin glistens in the firelight, smudged and cracked. Her lips quirk into a small smile and the cracks in her teeth are stained with blood, and she smells of copper and dust and sweat. She has never looked more beautiful.

Her hand falls to the ground. Her eyes glaze over and the spark of life in them is extinguished. She's gone. He gently closes her lids so it looks like she is sleeping. He stays by her side for what seems like an eternity. There is a weight on his shoulders and it is surrounding him in a chokehold and it is _so, so heavy and he can't get up._ She is dead. He wants so desperately to hold her hand, to feel the warm reassurance of her fingers laced in his. But her hand is cold, and so is the rest of her, and no flame will warm her body again.

* * *

He makes his way toward the Astronomy Tower after the funeral. He hadn't wanted to go. But nothing went as he wanted it to and he had winded up there anyway, bent over her coffin. His throat had tightened when he saw her, the woman he loved, the one who connected the fragments of his soul with the fractured pieces of hers. Her dress was all satin and pearls and crystal lace, and he couldn't help but think how stunning she would have looked in it had she been alive. How beautiful she would have looked when she walked down the aisle... No. He will not think of her. Thinking of her hurts. He takes a swig of the amber liquid in the flask. It settles in his stomach, warm and comforting. And as he looks up at the moon, he wishes he could just _forget_.

He freezes. He can forget. It would be nothing but a flick of his wand, and there would be nothing but sweet oblivion. But something stays his hand. There is something calling to him, from the back of his drunken mind. Something said. Promises exchanged. He can't recall it right now.

He picks up his wand, and with trembling fingers points it towards himself.

 _Obliviate._

A flash of blinding light is already invading his vision, and it is then that he finally remembers.

 _" Just don't forget me, alright?"_

His head is pounding and his knees are giving way and he can feel a sharp pain in his knees and then there is nothing.

 **Well, how was it? This is my first fanfic, though I have read stories on this site for over two years. I'd love to know if there are any improvements I can make in my writing, and I welcome constructive criticism. So please do drop in a review and thanks for reading.**


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